


Bow Before Your King

by StarsBurst



Series: Servants to Greatness [3]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Breeding, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscarriage, Oral Sex, Pet Names, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Spanking, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, tipsy reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 21:22:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12021246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsBurst/pseuds/StarsBurst
Summary: According to history, the only child recorded for Ivar the Boneless was born when the King was in his 50's. Was there any reason for this?Or:King Ivar the Boneless can pleasure his wife just fine, thank you.





	Bow Before Your King

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Slave of the True Heir](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11014374) by [StarsBurst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsBurst/pseuds/StarsBurst). 



> Warnings: a miscarriage is mentioned briefy, and there is a discussion about infertility. I also put the dubious consent in, because the Reader is tipsy during sex, even though the couple has discussed it beforehand. I just thought I'd rather be safe than sorry.

“They talk behind your back, brother,” Ubbe said, in as calm and placating a tone that he could use with his youngest brother, without Ivar thinking he was being coddled. He'd purposefully brought the discussion up _only_ once their wives, and Hvitserk, had left the table after breaking their fast; their presence would have made Ivar more defensive by principal.

“Do they think they can overthrow me?” Ivar laughed, his eyes scanning around the Great Hall.

It had been nearly seven years since he'd overthrown Lagertha, and no one had dared question him about it. He and his powerful army raided many lands since then, and King Ivar the Boneless became exceptionally wealthy from it. As tempestuous as he'd been as a teen and a young man, he'd grown wiser. He was an excellent tactician, particularly for battle. Strategy and wit were his best weapons – though any man who opposed him was no exempt from being brutally destroyed by a cruel and unforgiving tyrant.

The only ones who avoided his wrath were his family. His brothers had become accustomed to his moods over the years. He tolerated their wives. His nieces and nephews, to everyone's surprise, enjoyed his company, and he grew fond of theirs. His wife stood unwavering at his side, after he'd released her from slavery and made her his Queen.

“No,” Ubbe answered, his expression apologetic. Ivar knew that was never a good sign. “They make... comments, Ivar. About your wife, and an empty throne.”

A great boiling rage swelled up in Ivar, and it took every fiber in his being to keep it from erupting. For a normal King, such talk would be irrelevant, but all men knew Ivar the Boneless would never be a normal King.

He and his wife of nine years – still as stubborn, cheeky, and beautiful as the day he'd found her – had no children. Admittedly, between the raids and his swiftly accumulating wealth and land, Ivar had no thought about children too often. At thirty-four years, there was still ample time to secure his lineage, and he was certain the gods would allow him to continue reigning for many years to come. Begilda, unlike many other women in Kattegat he'd met, who had demanded their husbands give them children from the moment they were in bed together, had shown no qualms with waiting either.

“ _The gods will bless us when they so choose,”_ she'd said, on the few sparse moments when he brought it up. _“But I do not mind practicing for them in the meantime.”_

Truly, if his wife had become pregnant each time they had sex, the population of Kattegat would have easily tripled. He worshiped her as often as time would allow, and she was equally insatiable. Ubbe, Hvitserk, Margrethe, and even Orva – who was now approaching her sixteenth summer – had caught them in the act, at once point or another. (In fact, Ivar was fairly certain that Hvitserk would occasionally hunt them down on purpose, in hopes of catching them in the midst of fucking; no doubt he would jump at the chance to join in.)

However, if – for some reason – the gods never gave them children, then there would be no one to directly inherit the Ivar's throne. It meant, once he and his wife passed, their wealth and land would fall to whomever claimed it. Such a thing, Ivar thought, was inexcusable. He refused to let everything he gained fall into the hands of those who were unworthy.

Ivar seethed about it for hours. Hour and hours. He secluded himself from everyone, scaring off the occasional person who found him (usually slaves, begging on behalf of their mistress for his presence), and fuming. As petty as it sounded, Ivar wanted some resemblance of revenge over the condescending words of these men.

But... how?

*** * * * ***

Your husband had been unnecessarily broody over the past few days, and he'd given you no sort of explanation. He had been stoic and short (more so than usual), and he'd snapped at you a fair amount of times, which you hadn't put up with.

“ _You will speak to me civilly, or you won't speak to me at all,”_ you had snapped back, and the following silence had lasted until you crawled under the furs in your bed and slept.

Orva had quietly mentioned it the night before, to you and only you. She was still wary of Ivar, something which would likely never go away completely, and she skirted around him as much as possible whenever his dark, stormy moods arose. She lived with the two of you, in her own room on the opposite end of the longhouse, and escaping to her bedroom often allowed her this. If he noticed it (and knowing your husband, he did), he never spoke about it. He had murdered Lagertha in front of her, after all, and while _that_ had been a mistake (no young child ought to witness murder), neither of you were regretful of the act itself.

To top it all off, the greatest offense – in your mind – was that neither of you had had sex since his mood began, and that, in turn, was pissing you off. When he went on raids without you, there were weeks or months on end without him by your side. You missed him terribly, for many reasons, and the two of you made the most of everything when he was in Kattegat. To be ignored was unusual – and, were you honest with yourself, rather hurtful. You knew he had no other lovers, but you could not think of any reason for him to reject you.

So when he decided, on an absolute whim, to hold a great feast, you embraced the sudden change of attitude – even when he demanded that you leave him to his own devices. In one breath, he said he wanted to prepare the Great Hall himself – meaning, of course, he wanted to be the sole person to boss around the slaves, who would do the actual preparations. In the next, he claimed he needed Ubbe, Sigurd, and Hvitserk to help, so you made yourself scarce and spent the day with Margrethe and her brood.

Your sister-in-law was grateful for the company. Now heavily pregnant with her third child, it was rare for her to be out of Ubbe's eagle-eyed sight. It wasn't a malicious intent, nor sprung from any sort of jealousy, of course. Her husband simply became overprotective of her when she was with child, almost violently so. He'd acted the same way with their first two children as well, but he always calmed down once the child was born.

“ _I don't need an escort to bathe in the river,”_ Margrethe joked once to her husband, who had enough grace to appear sheepish, _“Or to piss.”_

Initially, you had thought it was simply Ubbe's way, but Hvitserk and Sigurd had reacted the same way with their own wives and children. Ubbe, if you thought about it, was probably the most relaxed of the three.

Hvitserk's wife, Hlíf, had suffered two miscarriages before she finally gave birth. She had been surprisingly calm through the entire affair, while Hvitserk appeared ready to cut off the head of any man who came near her during the final two months. Sigurd had been no better, once Gróa had revealed she was with child. It only got worse once they realized she would be having two at once. (They had arrived early and small, but healthy, and Gróa had screamed louder than they during the birth. Sigurd's hand had been black and blue for two straight weeks.)

You knew there was a part of your husband that was jealous over their good fortune. Well, perhaps _jealous_ was not the correct word. _Longing_ might be a better one. You watched as Ivar's eyes always fell to the swollen bellies of his sister-in-laws, and how – when he thought nobody was watching – his gaze would linger. There had been no inkling of any sort of pregnancy in your marriage: no late bleeding, no mood swings or nausea, nothing. Truthfully, you would be alright with holding off on children for a little while longer, but you also knew if you waited _too_ long, it would be unhealthy for you and whatever little ones you had.

You knew some of the nosier bunch in Kattegat talked. You overheard them when Ivar was not around; when you babysat Hlíf's daughter, or Gróa's twins, or any of Margrethe's brood. Women who would ask if you were alright, and their eyes always were on your stomach. Men who laughed and asked if you were willing to trade “a crippled bastard” for a “real man”. You never spoke about it to Ivar, knowing it would enrage him, but you knew his brothers were aware of it. They had caught snippets of it, here and there.

But there was a nagging little feeling in the pit of your heart, whenever you thought about their words. It was obvious the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok was fertile: Sigurd had been married for only a year before Gróa became with child, and when Hlíf and Margrethe stopped trying to prevent pregnancy, they were with child shortly afterwards. You and Ivar made no attempts to try and stop any potential offspring from being created, and here you were, almost ten years later. An empty nest.

It had taken your own mother years before she had become pregnant with you. Many more years before Orva came along, and your little sister's birth had been too strenuous for her to handle. It seemed foolish, but what if your own womb was destined to be even more barren?

*** * * * ***

The feast – full of men, swaggering drunk, roaring songs and tales about the gods, sharing great plates of meat and bread and food – was, as far as you could tell, a success. It had started towards the setting of the sun, and the stars had been out for quite some time now, and there seemed to be no sign of stopping, though many had already returned to their homes. The fires roared on, ale and wine continued to flow, food was still served.

Ivar sat, rather content, on his own throne while you mingled among the women; you had left once to help Margrethe home, because Ivar had needed Ubbe for “something” (Margrethe only rolled her eyes), but you had returned shortly thereafter. Your brothers-by-law were still around, talking among themselves, along with other warriors whose faces you recognized. King Harald Finehair was visiting – he had quite a soft spot for your husband, and he saw Ivar when he could, and he had always treated you with respect – but his attention seemed to be on wooing a beautiful woman in the corner.

You were already quite tipsy – two and almost a half large goblets of Saxon wine could do that to a woman – and Ivar's expression grew perpetually more mischievous as he urged you to drink, having slave continue to fill your glass at his command. You knew this game well: both of you would drink and flirt and sass each other until, eventually, you would both wind up tangled up against each other under the furs in your bedding.

Of course, the two of you having intercourse with you slightly woozy was something you both had discussed early on in your marriage. Despite how he presented himself in public, Ivar admitted that he had no desire to cause you harm or take you against your will. He knew becoming given _too_ _much_ wine could make it harder for you to make distinguishable decisions. You explained that the wine helped you relax during feasts (which was true), but it also made it easier for you to demand what you wanted from him. The first few years, you were shy to vocalize what you wanted from him in the bedroom, something which you eventually outgrew, but the occasional glass or two still helped, when you were in public. The two of you also quickly learned what your limits were – if you had more than three, it was often best to wait until the morning, unless there was a great amount of food involved – and if Ivar ever had concerns, he was always patient enough to wait until the morning, once you sobered up. He would also make the wait worthwhile, if you were still in the mood.

Right now you could feel his eyes lingering on you through-out the night, and – eventually – you knew you needed to sit for a moment, so you staked your claim on the empty throne beside him.

“My beautiful wife has returned to me at last,” Ivar teased, soft enough for only you to hear, and you couldn't help but smile. Whatever storm-cloud that had taken hold of him was gone, and your husband had returned. He took hold of your hand – the one not holding onto the half-full goblet – and kissed your knuckles. “I have neglected you. I am sorry.”

“You should be,” you said, taking note of the playful glint in his eyes. You recognized it well: neither of you would be falling asleep tonight. “I have missed you.”

“I shall make it up to you,” he promised.

“I hope so,” you said with a pout, one of your several ways of playing with your husband. “I would be disappointed with you if you did not.”

It was all a part of your foreplay, of course; lighthearted teasing of each other, sometimes insults that were not too harsh, nicknames or flat-out vulgar requests. Should neither of you desire sex for an evening (something that, honestly, was rare, but did occur frequently enough), both of you were free to step down from the game, and the other would respect it. There had been many nights – particularly during the first few years of your marriage, when Ivar had been more insecure of himself than he was now, and you were recovering from nourishment and your body's overexertion – when he had been content to merely sleep with you cuddled against his chest. Other nights, you only needed to look in your husband's eyes to know you would get no rest until the sun rose once again.

And that was _very_ much alright by you.

“You won't be able to walk back to the house, if you keep drinking so much,” he teased, lightly rubbing his fingers over your knuckles.

“And whose fault shall that be?” you winked. “Plying me with such good wine. It is as if you want me to stay.”

He chuckled at that, giving your hand a gentle tug, carefully urging you out of your throne and onto your feet.

“Come here,” he murmured, helping ease you onto his lap. Rather than sit astride him as you would a horse, you curled up and laid your legs over one of his arm rests. It was a typical sort of embrace for the two of you – especially since Ivar was always affectionate following a good raid. The sight of King Ivar with his Queen in his lap was not uncommon sight for the people of Kattegat.

“Mmm,” you purred, nuzzling your head into the crook of his shoulder, pressing small kisses into his collar bone. He felt so _warm._ “Right where I belong...”

You were certain the wine was aiding your mouth in saying such things without prompting, or without blushing, true as they might be. If Ivar's chuckle was any indication, he believed that too, though that didn't stop his hands from wrapping around your waist to steady you.

“My beautiful little wife...”

A loud drunken call from the other end of the hall broke you from your reverie, and you pouted when you realized it was King Finehair laughing at something either Hvitserk or Sigurd told him. The beautiful woman was apparently forgotten. Still, you felt slightly placated when Ivar kissed your forehead.

“You are adorable when you are this grumpy,” Ivar teased.

“I would be even more adorable with your cock inside me, husband,” you said, giving his side a poke, and he squeezed your thigh firmly.

“Do not get ahead of yourself, my little slave,” he whispered in your ear, so soft you almost could not hear it. “Be a good girl for your King.”

“Ivar,” another man's voice pulled you, once again, from your game. If Ivar's expression held any proof, he was equally displeased.

“What?” he demanded.

You took a sip of your wine as the man said, “Your, er, requests for this evening—”

“Is Sigurd playing the lute?” you asked, and Ivar stifled at a laugh at the man's horrified expression.

“She doesn't know?” he asked.

“It is a surprise, Ubbe,” Ivar said, giving your thigh another squeeze. “She will enjoy it.”

It was in that moment you realized, yes, the man was Ubbe. Wow. _How_ had you not recognized him? You couldn't help but giggle.

“I-I'm sorry, brother,” you said, “I did not recognize you.”

“She's drunk, Ivar,” Ubbe stated softly, his voice protective.

Ivar shook his head. “Have you not seen my wife in this state?”

The three of you knew what that meant. Your behavior could resemble a private thrall's if you were plied with enough wine. It was part of the reason you drank so much during feasts and celebrations; your actions would often entice your husband – Kingly duties or no – into giving you exactly what you wanted. During one memorable feast, Ubbe had snuck Margrethe away from the Hall to have some fun with her in their private quarts – only to pass by your house and catch the two of you in the middle of loud and rambunctious intercourse.

You took another sip as Ubbe's face flushed slightly – _dirty boy,_ you thought – before you let out a soft whine when Ivar gently took the goblet from your hands.

“That should be enough,” he said, then gave you a kiss on the cheek. “You will want to remember tonight.”

“I better,” you said, resting your head on his shoulder, listening to the sound of his chuckle, before Ubbe pulled his attention again.

Rather than listen, their voices lulled down to background chatter as you peered around at the hall, safe on your perch in your husband's lap. There were probably about fifteen or so men in the room, including Hvitserk and Sigurd and King Finehair. Floki wasn't around, nor were your sisters-by-law, and Orva had retired to her bedchamber several hours previously. You did recognize the men in the room, though: men whom you knew Ivar trusted greatly.

“My love,” Ivar's voice whispered in your ear, followed by a soft peck on your neck. “I need you to do something for me.” He waited until he saw your eyes, making sure he had your attention, before continuing, “I want you to sit on the edge of that table, and wait for me.”

He made a small nod towards a nearby table. Like most of the ones in the Hall, it was rather long, but several feet of it were void of any cutlery or utensils or chairs. It was surprisingly barren.

“Are you fine to walk on your own?” he teased, and you playfully stuck your tongue out at him before rising from his lap. As you carefully made your way over, sitting on the edge of the table (but giving yourself enough space so you wouldn't fall), you could see your husband easing himself into a standing position, relying heavily on his crutches, which he always had placed beside his throne. From your perch, you had a good view of the Hall, which – you realized – had suddenly gone very quiet. Ivar did not move from his spot in front of the throne; the men were listening to whatever was about to occur.

“There have been rumors around Kattegat,” Ivar stated, commanding the entire room's attention (as if they weren't already silent), his mouth turning into a cruel sneer, “which had reached my ears, because they are about _my_ _wife._ ”

The men in the room grew rather tense at your husband's words. The color was draining from their faces. They looked uncomfortable. However, from the faces you saw, you never recalled any of them saying such comments towards you – at least, while you were in ear-shot.

“These rumors are untrue,” Ivar continued, making sure to look each man in the eye as he spoke – passing over his brothers and King Finehair, who seemed rather amused by this entire affair. “No man in this room has been spreading such lies, but those who _have_ , I shall deal with accordingly. You are all lucky to have not earned my displeasure.”

While you were pleased that your husband wouldn't be spilling blood tonight, the men looked no more or less relieved. In fact, they seemed rather confused, except for your brothers-by-law.

“My wife —” Ivar redirected, giving you a naughty grin, and you couldn't help but smile back. Damn him and his good looks and charm. “— I admit, I have neglected as of late, and she deserves much praise after staying by my side all these years. She is a great Queen, and she will be revered as such, and I am allowing each man in this Hall the highest honor by allowing them the privilege of watching.”

It took several moments for the men in the Hall to catch on, but you knew immediately what Ivar meant. Hell yes. The loud cheering which followed, making Ivar laugh and your grin to grow wider, was as thunderous as a drum and eased any tension of the Hall.

“I trust every man shall keep his hands to himself,” Ivar continued, slowly making his way over to you, his tone breaking no argument whatsoever, “because she is _all mine_.”

“Always,” you purred, louder than intended, and when Ivar finally kissed you, you faintly heard a cry of **SKOL**. The men were eager for a show from their King – _your_ King – but they would not interfere. You could also hear a small amount of chatter, men who were clearly fine now that their lives were no longer in potential danger, but you ignored it. After all, you had a better person to pay attention to.

With the table as his aid, Ivar was able to lean against the edge, positioning himself between your legs as he started to hike your skirts up your knees. To your surprise, even as the men continued to cheer for your husband, and as Ivar started to press kisses against your neck, he made no demands for you to strip. How odd. When the two of you had intercourse, he normally asked you to shed your clothes immediately, because he loved to look at you in all of your glory. When he didn't, he either did it himself, or – rarer still – made you see stars using only his mouth and fingers, often multiple times, before moving on.

Your King loved your breasts. He loved to kiss every inch of your warm skin, rub your nipples with his thumbs until they hardened, nibble and suckle and pinch and (sometimes) scratch. He loved your stomach, how soft it was, how ticklish you were. He frequently experiment with your body by brushing his fingers lightly against your sides while doing naughtier things with his mouth or hands, to see if you would laugh or moan. The broadness of your shoulders. The soft curve of your spine: if you lay on your stomach, he would kiss every inch of your torso, making his way slowly down your spine, whispering enough dirty things to make even the gods blush.

Above all, he loved your thighs and your arse. He loved the feeling of your soft skin under his hands. His hands never strayed very far from these places during intercourse. His fingers left indentations from how hard he held on, whenever he ate you out. His constant and insatiable desire to _squeeze_ and slap your rear until the skin turned red and sore was something you both, thankfully, shared, and it had been one of the first acts that Ivar had brought into the bedroom (which made it surprisingly precious to the both of you). He was also exceptionally fond of “claiming” all of your holes, which you'd found surprisingly enjoyable, as long as Ivar made sure to prepare you for such play.

You almost pouted over your additional layers, and you thought about making a comment, before a spark went off in your head. You realized _exactly_ what Ivar was doing. He was allowing these men to watch, as were you. He wanted them to see how much pleasure he could bring to his Queen. He did not, however, want them to see you in your entirety. Such a gift was reserved for him – and him alone. All else was fair play. _Foreplay_.

By the gods, you were _awful_.

“You have no idea how many times I have wanted to take you on this table,” Ivar said, one of his arms carefully winding around your waist as he leaned further forward, forcing you to lean backwards as well, until your back pressed against the table. (You distinctively caught King Finehair's amused chuckle. Bastard. He probably encouraged this entire affair, not that you minded.) His other arm was easing your skirts up, inch by inch, until they laid billowed around your rear and the lower parts of your stomach, unveiling yourself to your husband for the first time in all-too-many days. By the way Ivar was positioning himself, it was unlikely that any other man in the room could catch a glimpse of your cunt, but your bare legs seemed to spark enough arousal – as well as cheers and some amused laughter – that they _knew_.

“I've thought about this since our wedding,” Ivar added on, his voice lowering to a whisper. “Having my way with you, in front of a crowd, until they cheered as you came again and again. The gods would cheer for us as I fucked you. But I wouldn't let my beautiful little slave come until she begged me for release.”

_You utter bastard_.

“Do you want for me to beg now, husband?” you purred, before you let out a sharp squeal when Ivar's hand – previously by your skirts – dug into your thighs. Not harsh enough to bruise, but enough to grasp your attention. You could feel his callouses rubbing against the tender skin of your inner thighs.

“Do you think I shall go easy on you, if you do?” he teased back, before he caught your lips in a kiss, which earned some polite applause – only for said applause to turn into loud cheering when you purposefully grabbed his face to kiss him harder. He wanted an audience, and he was giving them a show; you could certainly aid in that, in whatever way you could.

If you thought about it, you could probably count on two hands, the amount of times that Ivar had taken you against a table – or other large pieces of furniture, that didn't involve your bed. Most of the time, such a position was too difficult with his condition, and the thought of potentially harming Ivar – ever, but especially in the middle of sex – kept this sort of event at bay. By no means did that dwindle your sex lives. His eyes glistened in awe each time you rode him, even after all your years of marriage, and he was utterly incapable of keeping his hands to himself when you were in that position. Or any position, frankly. It was easier on his legs if you rode him, or he took you from behind, because there was no unnecessary weight on his bones. (It also allowed him easier access to all of you, especially your arse, so you were awash with blessings when the two of you fucked.)

“If you go easy on me,” you whispered, certain that the wine was swirling around in your blood, “I will make you regret it.”

“I never have regrets when you are beneath me,” Ivar said softly, which was probably the most romantic thing he'd said to you in the past two weeks or so, particularly when coupled with his attempt to kiss your mouth once again. However, you pulled on his braid, just hard enough to push him away without harming him, and a smirk settled on your face, especially when Ivar seemed slightly confused.

“If you do not fuck me until I scream,” you whispered in as threatening and as soft as a tone as you could, “Then when I come, I will say one of your brothers' names.”

A dangerous glint suddenly cast in your husband's eyes. You would never actually do such a thing: you loved Ivar far too much, and while his brothers were physically attractive, you couldn't imagine bedding them when your husband was all-too-willing and capable of taking care of you.

“You naughty, _dirty_ little slave,” he muttered, the hand against your thigh moving swiftly until his thumb pressed against your wet pussy, while his other started to work his trousers down, just enough so he could enter you. Flashing his bare arse to an audience wasn't likely something Ivar wanted, but depending on how rough this got, it might be the case. You let out a loud moan, especially when his thumb started to rub in an effort to test how wet you were (extremely so), earning a loud cry of approval from the audience.

“Only for you —” you started to say, before your words were cut off by a loud pleasured wail when Ivar suddenly entered you, sheathing himself in the entire way, and the ensuing applause and ruckus from the audience around you was almost ear-shattering. The hand previously on his trousers now grabbed a firm hold of the table, balancing himself as he easily started into a rhythm, pulling out almost all the way, before pushing his way back in to the hilt. You were already quite wet when he started, and you could hear the wet, familiar sound of his cock inside of you.

“When we are finished here, I will take you back to our home, and you are going to bounce on my cock until the sun rises,” Ivar growled in your ear, the sound of his hips snapping against your softer skin the only animalistic sound your brain was registering. You could no longer see the faces – or hear the cheers – of the men around you. Your eyes were only on Ivar. “I will worship you like a goddess. Your beautiful arse will become bright red under my hand, and you shall not walk straight for days. You will love it, my little slave, and I will love doing it to you.”

Perhaps it was because the two of you were putting on a performance for several people, or perhaps it was due to being untouched for far too long (in your opinion). Perhaps it was because Ivar was whispering such dirty things in your ear, and he normally waited until your second or third orgasm to say naughty promises. Perhaps it was a combination of all three, but you could feel your orgasm coming on much faster than you anticipated.

“I-Ivar, I —”

“Louder,” he growled, now speeding up the pace of his thrusts, making the table wobble slightly, “Scream as loud as you can.”

You needed no coaching: you crying out his name sounded akin to a shriek, just like the first time the two of you went to bed all those years ago, and it took a while for you to come down from your high. You could make out several men clapping and cheering from the corner of your eye, but you instead focused on your husband, who planted several soft kisses to your cheek once you came to. His eyes glistened with promise, and you fully intended on taking him up on that.

As soon as your legs stopped twitching.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, my smut is a bit rusty, so I'm sorry for that. I hope you guys enjoyed anyway!


End file.
